


On the Subject of My Lover, "RRA(+R)"

by lestvt



Series: Intercourse With the Vampire [3]
Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, Bottoming from the Top, M/M, Oral Sex, POV First Person, Part 2, tl;dr lestat and louis complain about each other and then fuck instead of talking it out like adults
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-06 19:47:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14654904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lestvt/pseuds/lestvt
Summary: [Part 2 of 2, Louis's POV]Meanwhile, Louis plays the victim.





	On the Subject of My Lover, "RRA(+R)"

(2/2)

**RRA(+R)**

 

 _It’s going to rain_ , I thought. An imperfect distraction.

I felt it as I walked, slowly cutting through the humidity, that negligible resistance, with each deliberate step. Allowing it to dampen my skin, soft like a veil made of silk so fine and fragile that no mortal could perceive it. Perhaps not beyond the minute tickle of hair on living flesh, that is. A curse, having it shred and settle over my cheeks, forehead, and nose, and then linger where it would evaporate on them. Where my own liquid fervor should be cooled by that mist, not level with it. And where, if it rained, I might open my mouth and be quenched. If this were a dream, I mean.

Only, it wasn’t a dream. But a nightmare? Maybe. This niche I inhabited, imprisoned as the walking embodiment of “memento mori,” as well as the contradiction of it. And followed by it. Taunted. Eternally thirsting. It was a void.

I was on the verge of incoherence. Those glowing digital clocks made of tiny, pale green lights, the countless television sets endlessly restocked in store windows, and the mutating skyline of the city, destined to ever evolve were the crows picking at my brain, leaving me a mindless mess. But I wasn’t truly mindless. I was trailblazing, and on the whim of a devil no less. And the rain was a distraction, yes, but not amnesia. Because how could I ever forget? The reminders lie in everything – in the very workings of my eyes.

And in the streets. This street in particular, the one echoing with electronic bass lines that vibrated beneath my feet in repetitive, addictive patterns, chosen deliberately as the ideal camouflage for my heavy-footedness if, say, that devil were nipping at my heels. Music and voices blaring, smells overpowering and pungent in the humidity, cigarettes and gasoline and sex, flashing lights for fashion over function, and cars kicking up water from the gutters as they sped by.

Everyone existed in their own bubble of a world here; one, even a fugitive among demons, could easily go unnoticed. Presumably. And many did.

And I was in ignorant bliss. However, I couldn’t ignore it forever, I knew. I know. And though I reminded myself that I had done this with intent, it did nothing to sooth me. It wasn’t what could.

The building I eventually came to was made of smooth, light grey blocks of stone, each wider than I was tall. It was lofty and intimidating in its clean, wealthy newness, and promising, and above the double black doors hung a sign in sharply stylized, rose colored letters – so luminous as they flashed one after the other in time with the beat that they painted the surrounding street in a rhythm of color. Their frame, the silhouette of a human heart.

 _PULSE_ , it read. 

I smiled privately at the name and then grimaced at such a sick sense of humor, the one which was not my own.       

Feeling disinclined, but starved, I stepped up to the front of the line formed there, and the mask of the large, stoic looking man in charge of the velvet rope broke and fell when he met my eye. His heartbeat picked up, dark hair and irises taking on a childlike hue in the blushing strobe lights, and his brows furrowed, unmatched by the hesitant hang of his mouth. I hadn’t done anything conscious to warrant such a reaction (besides look decidedly inhuman of course), but even still that old guilt reared its ugly head when he moved the rope for me, and the mortals still waiting to be permitted inside watched as I stepped through the doors in odd, stunned silence.  

I despised it, but I could not afford to dwell. I hadn’t the time or the need.  

The club’s innards were an idealized reflection of its outsides – shiny, clean and minimalist, but louder with more movement and color and tantalizing life. The rotating lights were nearly overwhelming, exacerbated by the mirrors lining every wall from floor to ceiling, corner to corner, where women and men alike stood to primp their hair and fix their made-up faces. Or where couples congregated to swap secrets of the mouth, tongue to tongue with anyone, irrespective of race or gender.

Although it was not my first time in a club of this nature, it still felt like a parenthetical to me, a portal to a new dimension, caught somewhere between the world I once knew, the world I know now, and the world I would know soon. Or Mt. Olympus, as all were immortal while between these walls, and therefore purer in death by word of divinity.     

Somewhat, it eased my guilt to see it that way. But it was merely a fallacy, so only just. And besides, I had no intention of lingering.   

In this state, it did not take long for the thirst to overwhelm me. I began moving in a blur of actions governed more by instinct than thought. And I slipped by the thrall of gyrating bodies, focused solely on the ashy taste springing up from my throat, and somehow managed to land miraculously next to the bar in my haze.

Unbidden, a voice shouted above the music, “Hey, man! What can I getcha?”

I turned toward the woman tending the bar and almost barred my fangs to kill her, but stopped halfway and hid the act with a polite smile.

“I’m fine, thank you.” I shook my head in case she couldn’t hear me.    

She paused, running her eyes over my front slow and suspicious. But, ultimately, she shrugged.

“Kay. Let me know if you change your mind,” she called, walking away to take care of another customer.

Relieved by her absence and having been given a moment to compose myself, I sat and simply watched the dancing mass of mortals, letting the desire to pluck one up and end my hunger consume, but not yet control me. Dreaming of warm skin, sumptuous against my lips, and the minute resistance of that flesh before, with a pop and inhale, my teeth pierce it, and I begin swimming in heavenly bliss. Accepting the damnation that follows.

Suddenly, a shift in the air.  

A man sat beside me, breaking my trance if only momentarily. And I looked to him, drawn to the smell of his life as he smiled at me in a manner I recognized. I remembered myself long enough to note the color of his hair, cropped short in waves of gold, and his eyes, blue as the beloved day’s sky, and the fact that he was eyeing me with interested mirth, thinking me some eclectic young man with a passion for painting my face. As though I’d chosen my horrid complexion, chosen to play the centuries old monster in the guise of a modern youth, and not had the part thrust upon me.

“Hi there. What are you having?” he asked.

“Nothing here,” I said.  

He did not seem deterred.                        

“Come on, don’t be like that. It’s not like I’d roofie you or something.”   

“I didn’t think you would,” I told him, adding in my head, _or could_. “But I don’t drink alcohol.”

He laughed.

“Straight-edge, huh? I can dig it. My name’s-”

Halting his pesky words, I put my fingers to his mouth and looked at him with what I’ve been told is my most dark and alluring expression. Wide-eyed, he stared back. And I knew now was not the moment for a well-rounded decision.

“Come, dance with me,” I offered and stood from my seat to weave through the living forest towards the center of the sparkling floor.

The man was but a few paces behind, still staring on in bewilderment. I stopped and waited until he caught up to wrap my hand around his and guide him along. As though shaken from a dream, my touch seemed to rouse him, and he grinned excitedly and stepped up to press against my back as we found an open space to begin moving with the music.

“You’re kinda mysterious, huh?” He spoke directly into my ear. “I like that.”

 _Soon you’ll eat those words_ , I found myself thinking, but the voice was not my own. And the laugh that followed was familiar, but too not my own.

Regardless, we moved against each other in time with the rhythmic thump of the music, and I became acutely and exclusively aware of his intoxicated breath on my cheek, his hot hands on my waist, his living musk in my nose, and his healthy heart banging against my eardrums in a way which made my vision falter and my tongue flick out in interest. Every once in a while another body would brush or bump against me, inciting some knee-jerk reaction to bite – brought back only by the feeling of lips on my ear and neck.

I turned, facing the man, and twisted my hand in the front of his shirt, bringing him forward for a kiss. Then I felt his hands slip down and around me, landing to knead the flesh of my behind like a cat settling in, attempting to stick his tongue in my mouth. Wary of my fangs, I intruded his instead, sending him a step back with the force of the action. He moaned into me, and our dance came to a sudden halt.

“You’re kinda cold,” he observed upon parting, licking his lips.  

Ignoring it, I looked to the exit. He followed my gaze.

“Come and warm me up then,” I said and began dragging him that way, out of the crowd. And as we walked, I swallowed down the regret and remembered my purpose.  

It might have been easier to forget, but the cooling wind was an unwelcome shock of sobriety as we stumbled outside, and the air tasted of salt that made me both nostalgic and nervous. From behind the nameless man was speaking to me in an inquisitive voice, but I couldn’t hear his words, only the sound of his pulse and the blood rushing through his veins – the screaming in mine. The warmth of his hand wrapped around my own, disconcerting and distracting, his grip was light and pliable, not what I wanted at all, but my mouth was suddenly achingly dry. I fought the urge to swallow air; I thought my tongue might flake off.

Quickly, I turned us into an alley, silent and abandoned, made of grimy claret bricks with dark water stains running down them. The man let out a bemused laugh when I released his hand. And when I really looked at him, I saw how he wanted me. And I begrudged it.     

“In a hurry?” he quipped. “What’s the rush? Night’s still young.”

Then he was touching me again with tongue and hands, crowding me up against the wall and guiding my lips apart with his fingers. I saw him notice my elongated teeth, the unnatural gleam in my eye, the too-perfect paleness and quality of my flesh – the gears turning in his head, then that inevitable modern rationalization: this was a statement of fashion, a mask of modification. And, apparently, one he favored.

I let him take the lead, manipulate me into a kiss and hold me there, for he was the willing host of the parasite, unknowing, and I was obedient to his lovely blamelessness for now. It was the least I could do, to allow the illusion to persist. I was a slave to it besides, so much so that I even took it a step further by giving a pleading look when he began caressing the crease of my ass, pressing his hand up and my legs apart. I pressed back, gasped and cried out. However, unlike my subservience, my voice was not for him.     

We went that way for a while, the man’s mouth moving on to my neck, his hands, bolstered and caressing below the waistline of my pants, my vision beginning to spin and the haze re-settling around me. I’d never been so cold, aware of our difference in temperature, and slowed by it, and it was abject glory. But my fingertips itched incessantly, and that voice in my head was weeping and shouting, _Do it! Take him! Be relieved of this suffering!_

I forced it down. Not yet. Just a while longer.     

And, as if on cue, I heard it: a dark rumble of sound from the sky. So low and with such resonance that I might have mistaken it for thunder had I not known to expect it. Then a choking whine, pained like a sob.              

I felt him there with me before I even opened my eyes. I was sure of it deep in my core. And when I peered up he was right above on the rooftop, staring down and looking decidedly livid, yet, so in love. The light of the moon was lending him a silver lining, a halo. And how beautifully deceitful, I thought. How awful. How like a dream it was to look up at him this way, sacrifice in hand, like something out of a Greek tragedy – unnerving and sad, and not quite a nightmare. But close. Poetic. And by the sight of him, I was as exasperated as I was relieved.

 _Finally_ , I thought.   

Finally, my thirst would be quenched.  

 

[…]

 

Oh, Lestat.

Dear, capricious Lestat. How you do adore your drama…

In truth, I have much to say on the matter, as well you may know. But somehow I feel weary all of the sudden. And loath in love. And they’re foolish, these feelings, yes. But, still, I remain for some ungodly reason. And, still, I have to ask myself, where do I even begin with you?    

At the beginning, I suppose, that would be the obvious choice. At least of this night.

 

[…]

 

From the moment I arrived at Lestat’s flat I knew he was in a rotten mood. I could sense the tension rolling off him in torrid waves, almost as visible as heat emanating from the pavement on a sweltering summer day. And it transferred temporarily to me via mouth when I was greeted by a harsh, over-powering kiss – searing to the touch, same as the pavement would be – burning and unwelcome, and yet not to the frigidity of my skin, like steam rising from a manhole in winter. Had it been a different night, a different season, had I not been so perturbed, I might even have sunk into him. I might have let him have me.     

In retrospect, however, pulling away as though I were singed probably didn’t help rectify the situation. If anything, it exacerbated it, and, reactions aside, I knew this simply because Lestat has never taken well to any form of minute verbal rejection, let alone the blatant physical kind. It’s just that in more recent years damage control has become my specialty, and so I also cannot say I was too concerned. Not that I ever truly was to begin with.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

In order to fully grasp the intricacies and overall nature of my relationship with Lestat, there are a few basic traits of his that need first be established.     

One, that he’s arrogant.

Though I must admit, speaking of Lestat’s arrogance becomes all too repetitive after so many centuries of doing it. It’s superbly tiresome, but also so undoubtedly important to your understanding, that I have to mention it, and yet cannot help but be brief.  Again, I find my words are but an echo, and a harmful one at that, as I’m not very fond of the sound of my own voice. But still, here I am pointing out Lestat’s unabashed, willful selfishness for the thousandth time and simultaneously choosing to love him anyway… if you can even call it a choice.   

Maybe, I sometimes muse, it’s because I envy him for it. But that’s all I’ll say on the matter for now. There’s no need to linger here any longer; I think you understand.            

The second thing is that he’s fickle.

Although, just as Lestat is fickle, he is also quite predictable. And predictable in that one can be sure he will do what he is expected not to. And then again in that he is apt to surprise you, even if sometimes you are only surprised by how unsurprising he can be. That’s just another case of holy contradiction though, his case.

But we each have one. It is something so embroidered into the fabrics of our reality, of vampires and mortals alike, that we cannot, as we are, imagine a life without it. Just as I sometimes cannot imagine a life without Lestat.

And is that why Lestat, I’ve begun to think, is the essence of that notion? 

Knowing him, I cannot say if he would agree. It would depend on our company or the time of night, or where the moon lies in the sky and what kind of clouds are its convoy, if any at all. I merely know what I see.  And that in him I see vacillation – fickleness. And that’s all there is to it.       

Then, finally, the third trait: that he’s insecure.

Now, this, more than the other two, is certainly one trait worth assessing – not to be taken at face-value, for Lestat is the sort for acting and masks to be peeled away. If anything, I think this must be the trait worth exploring most of all, in fact, and the one hardest to identify, at least for someone he’s in the midst of performing for.

That is, of course, until you become his catalyst, and the steam passes through you, and you are blinded by white tainted grey and smog so heavy you’d choke.       

Or perhaps it is only I who feels that way. And perhaps I feel it simply because I know Lestat doesn’t trust me (or anyone, for that matter), and that he never fully has. Because he is so insecure, which I should find incommodious, and _do_ , but it makes sense when you know how he distrusts himself. So, I cannot rightly resent him for it either – not any longer – not as much as I’d maybe like to.  

He’s trying, and he has his reasons. That’s all I can ask.

The only real problems arise when I allow him to sit and stew in such a state for too long, when I let him devour that distrust. I’ve come to find that a little intervention from me can do wonders, lest he blow up and take it out on everyone else instead. Or even himself.   

And at times like that, it’s usually a more rewarding option to walk away until he regains his senses. But lately I’ve learned to avoid it altogether, because there _is_ a means of counteracting. And it only took a few years to perfect. I wish I’d thought of it sooner, honestly, but _c’est la vie_.  

It’s simple though, really. Just a three step process.

 

 

 **1.** Rouse

 

Lestat is easily bored, and monotony in any of its many forms can often drive him to do some pretty foolhardy things. And I know when it’s coming, because more than usual he will find reasons to fight with me. The beast wants to be roused, as it were. It’s his way of reaching out, I think, asking for something he does not really want to ask for or even know he needs. He’s attention hungry after all, always has been, and entitled and passionate. And when that entitled passion is snuffed, it reignites as rage, a dangerous weapon in his hands.

So, if the signs are there, I tend to take the initiative myself. That mortal phrase comes to mind, “like ripping off a band aid.” It’s best down quickly and all at once.

That is to say, what I try to rouse in Lestat is his already active passion – rerouted further and faster towards something more productive than an argument or rash choice. If he is already itching for a fight, I’ll gladly give it to him, because at least with me it will find its conclusion. And, at any rate, I’d rather be his outlet than allow us to repeat the past. Rather than let him get into trouble.  

After all, who do you suppose would have to clean up his mess? Because, I can tell you right now, it certainly won’t be him.

“You’re cruel,” I’ll tell him, and it’s something he’ll grin at. Something he would have me believe he’s proud to hear. To hide how miserable and bruised it makes him, especially coming from me. That’s right, me, who knows firsthand the truth.

But, that being said, there are a number of methods for riling Lestat, for getting him to that point of detonation. He’s easy to agitate if you know which buttons to push. And undoubtedly the most effective tactic is to simply ignore him – to show no interest, because for someone so attention starved, for someone holding a perpetually tipping scale of prideful vanity and the lack thereof, there is nothing worse.  

Besides, it’s not as if it’s much of a hassle for me. I’m had plenty of time to practice.  

 

       

 **2.** Run

 

So, in comes the delay – the buildup in the narrative. Or, as Lestat says, I “run away.” And I might as well. He’s always accusing me of it anyway. He’s brought it up again and again, and I know how he obsesses over ending it. It’s the same reason he kept his secrets, and then the same reason he proposed marriage; he thinks it might make me stay. And I figure at least in this way I can beat him to the punch, and maybe call him on his bluff. As if to say, “Yes, Lestat, you were right. I did leave you. And I’ll do it again. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

No?

Honestly, I think he likes hearing it more than he realizes. If I did stay, he’d probably grow restless and leave again himself.    

Then again, perhaps not.  

But I know how he loves to stalk me, how he gets off on my supposed ignorance and defenselessness, and even more so on being caught in the act; he finds it thrilling. And I find it fittingly theatrical, because he’s always been difficult in that way. Has he not?  

More to the point, the reason running away works so well is because it gives Lestat time to push himself into action. And once he reaches a certain point, he usually decides to assert his “dominance” or some such nonsense, which more or less equates to hunting me down and attempting to drag me to what he calls “home."

What he doesn’t realize is that this is exactly what I expect him to do, what I plan on. I know what he wants from me now more than ever before, after all, even if he still won’t directly say it. I’m just playing along for his sake.

And maybe also for my own, though sometimes it doesn’t seem that way.

 

 

 **3.** Arouse

 

That’s why the third step exists. Though, the thought took some getting used to. I’ll admit if the results weren’t so satisfactory I’d be more opposed to it, and I truly cannot comprehend why it works, no more than I can comprehend why Lestat is so... himself.

If it were me, a quiet walk would be adequate. Not to mention, I almost want to say it’s against my morals, but that idea is rather repulsive all things considered.

Mainly, what I am. Although, there’s only Lestat to blame for that too, I suppose. Or to thank. I still haven’t completely decided.  

Anyway, life being how it is, when Lestat is frustrated it’s because he wants to be. And all anyone can really do about it is placate. Therefore, I play the victim, because an audacious, chaotic kind of intimacy is what mollifies him; it’s what makes him happy, and sometimes it’s what makes him listen to reason too. I don’t know why. I just know that it’s true.  

So, once he has found me (not that I’m actually hiding), I give him what he wants: a show or a distraction, a viable reason to take out his stress, as well as a subtle reminder that I also want him – that he has some semblance of control here.

And sometimes not so subtle.

Tonight, for example, when I let him watch me kill that man, the one whose only fault was being in the wrong place at the wrong time and looking somewhat like the vampire’s lover; that was hardly subtle. But Lestat appreciates a lack of subtly almost as much as he enjoys watching me feed. And, if I were to be even more frank about it, I’d say it arouses him. Therefore, I abide.   

Honestly, I have my reservations about the whole thing. But at the same time, I can’t truly say I don’t understand why he feels that way, even if I, myself, do not. There is something uniquely intimate about watching one another take a life. I’m simply more reluctant than I allow him to realize – about the killing for his pleasure, that is, not the more physical sort of intimacies, which are another matter altogether.  

But the haze of the thirst helps absolve me of some of that old guilt at least. Like that parenthetical world. And I manage.     

Although, as far as arousing Lestat goes, I will admit the public setting was new for me, and something I’m not altogether comfortable with. But I got caught up in the moment, because – and I’ll keep saying this until he believes me – that’s how much I want him. Even if maybe I shouldn’t.      

And that’s typically the end of it too. Except tonight Lestat had let something slip. The mask hit the floor, an echoing bang on a hollow wooden stage. And, curtain drawn, he revealed himself to me.

_(“Come on, Louis, tell me! Tell me why you don’t want me!”)_

So, an extra step was added.

 

 

 **4.** Remind

 

The walk to the apartment was short and soaking, but the chilled rain was somehow less sobering than the wind – more intoxicating, really, in the way it tickled my skin and made my clothes stick to my body. And Lestat was staring straight ahead, seemingly detached, but his arm was in a deadlock around mine, his pace faintly hurried, and his eyes too deep, too murky for that to be true. Unblinking, drops of water traversed his cornea. He didn’t even flinch.

The sacrifice was not sufficient, I realized. But his words had already told me that – told me he’d forgotten to what lengths I’d go. And, so, when we finally returned to his flat, safely tucked away in his room, I, thus, reminded him.

First with my mouth; I dropped to my knees there, he against the door, my hands firm on his hips. And I looked up at him, conveying through expression alone that if he wanted me here, then he was not to resist or argue – that he must submit to my reassurance. Not that I thought he _would_ resist, per say, but better to get the message across now.   

“Mmm, _mon amour_ ,” he sighed and started detangling my sodden hair with his fingers, but I wasn’t having it, and I thought I might as well let him know.

“Just shut the hell up, Lestat. I think you’ve said more than enough for one night.”

And with that Lestat stared down at me as though by some miracle I had turned mortal right before his eyes, as though again he was seeing me for the first time and falling “fatally in love” with my broken, human self, as he claims to have all those years ago (though I have my suspicions about that).

Of course, he would like me best at my most uncouth, I thought. It figures.

“But, Louis,” he bellowed, “I didn’t know you had such a mouth!” And then he began to laugh.  

I didn’t find it funny. It wasn’t even true.

So, I took him half into that mouth he was so obsessed with and sucked hard, feeling the swell on my lips and looking up just in time to watch his head fall and jaw loosen in an appreciative groan, dragging the haughtiness from his face. Encouraged, I pulled back and lavished the head with my tongue, applying light, swiping pressure to the tip in a way that had him digging his fingers into my skull, pushing and trying to control the pace, to make me take him deeper and faster and more.  

Annoyed, I tore his hand from my hair and backed off.   

“No,” I told him. “Don’t.”  

And there, in his eyes, shined a kind of uncertain excitement, and obediently he dropped his arms and put his palms flat on the door, watching me expectantly, distrusting.   

But I didn’t wait as he would. I didn’t tease or relive something cruel and long since resolved. I smiled at him graciously and pet his hip with my thumb, taking his erection into my other hand to kiss the head and slip back into my mouth, bobbing on it, heedless of my teeth. I scraped him, relishing the spring of blood it produced, and he answered only by the twitch of his withheld desire to thrust, and then the sound of him breathing in sharply through his nose, whispering my name.

 _I know_ , I told him by lavishing him with my tongue, giving a hum of acknowledgment that made him groan and jolt. Then I relaxed my throat to take it deeper, to pick up my pace and lengthen it too, ignoring the discomfort, the buildup of blood and saliva that drove me to choke and swallow around him.

Abdomen muscles flexed beneath my fingers as Lestat gripped my hair, not as a handle this time, but an anchor. And I listened to more than just his voice, but the tell of his body to hear when he was close, to know, not as a warning, but a promise.

He was already, it made my stomach burn to realize, my thirst returned full force.

Yes. Good. Give in to me, I thought. I want you to. I need it. Please.    

But right before the fall, Lestat tugged me off with a breathless gasp, and then I felt his palms and fingers on my cheeks, caressing tenderly, coaxing the disappointment from my face.

“ _Mon dieu,_ Louis!” This time when he laughed it was high, almost hysteric. “What has gotten into you?”

“Nothing anymore,” I muttered, and that sent him into a fit.

I let it play out, but once he regained his composure a tension resettled over us, and he offered me a hand. “Shall we move this to the bed?”

Nodding, I accepted the gesture and rose to stand, letting him wrap around my elbow and thumb at some blood smudging my chin.  

“But this time you must do as I say,” I told him.   

“Is that so? And how would you have me, _chéri_ _?_ ”  

“On your back.”

He smirked unpleasantly, but did not protest. Instead, he me let go and began shedding his clothes, one article at a time dropping to the floor with each step he took towards the bed. And once he was fully nude, he sat on the edge and watched me.  

I stared.

Lestat scoffed and gestured me closer.   

“Well?”   

Suddenly feeling rather shaken, I made my approach. And as I did, he slid up the mattress to rest his back on the mound of pillows there, still watching me with too much amusement in his eyes. A little annoyed by that, I lifted my knees to the bed, denting it under my weight, and crawled up to straddle him.   

Until that moment, I’d all but forgotten the dampness between my legs, lingering from when Lestat had defiled me before. But spread over him this way, suddenly I was all too aware of it. Aroused by it. How easy it would be to let him have me again, I thought, to be together so simply and always. Another blissful fantasy.

But oh, that’s right. No time for those. I had a purpose.  

I had to tell him.

He needed to know.  

You’re wrong, Lestat. I do want you. And when you yelled at me in that alley, your words hurt like a sword. Not because you’re cruel and you stabbed me (even though you are and, metaphorically, you have), but because you seemed so lost when you did it – so wounded. And all over me. It made me feel as though I hadn’t done something, neglected to, as though I’d failed you. Because we should be past this by now. We should’ve been since long ago. And I guess I should’ve helped you be.   

But then again, I doubted I actually could; that was just my foolishness talking again. After all, you’ll always find a reason, won’t you? No matter what I do.        

And so, there we were at the prologue of another useless play. And Lestat was beneath me, looking devious, as though he didn’t intend to stay there. And I was troubled, but aroused and restricted, frustrated by him and the way my erection rubbed into the seam of my pants with every shift – the feel of his own trapped beneath me, slick and solid from my mouth, nudging at the already damp seat of my backside. And I knew I had to make a move, and soon, or else he would.

I stripped down with haste, bearing this in mind, letting Lestat help me if only to give him the illusion of control, returning that favor. And then I pried his hands from my body, intertwined our fingers and pinned him down, his arms by my hands, his torso by my hips, his head by my kiss.  

Lestat moaned into my mouth and tried to bite me, but I backed away before he could latch on, earning a pout. Then a smile.        

“What are you planning?” he wondered.

“Nothing.”

Another scoff and his smile turned to a sneer.

“My beautiful one, _mon petit menteur_ ,” he called me.    

I clenched my jaw and glared at him. Then I reached behind myself, wrapped my fingers around his length, and stroked, guiding him to nudge against my hole. He was suddenly wide-eyed as he watched me, staring up as God, himself, appeared among the clouds. And, feeling emboldened by that thought, I held his gaze and I impaled myself, faltering only at how easy it was – how he slid home with such little resistance, leaving me full and warm and whole.  

Like this I became acutely aware of only Lestat – his solid form, undulating below me with the rise and fall of his chest, his lids drooped, and how he settled into the pillows, his mouth hung open in the softest sound of content. I wanted to take the time to thoroughly enjoy his expression, to admire the way he was so willing to give me control, but subconsciously he’d begun thrusting up into me, and the deep reach of his prick was sending jolts of electricity through my spine. It was too much. Too soon. I had to bite my lip to keep from sobbing.

I pressed down hard on his abdomen with my palms.  

“St – stop,” I forced out. “Don’t move.”        

And, miraculously, he obeyed.    

I closed my eyes and took a long, steadying breath. Once the tension had ebbed, I slowly began rocking against him, listening to him groan and pant and gradually building up to something more.

Lestat’s hands found my hips out of habit, but the moment I felt his grip there, I took his wrists and pinned them again, simultaneously leaning down for another kiss. He shifted below me as our tongues met, lifting his legs, bent slightly at the knee for a better, more secure angle. And like this the rub of my erection between us went straight to my head, and I began frantically fighting for friction from both sides, straining my arms and thighs with every lengthened bounce.       

Lestat turned his head, broke our kiss, and gasped against my cheek, wrists flexing in my grasp. I wanted to release him, to adjust for better purchase for a deeper, faster push, but still I didn’t trust him not to steal the lead. He was too prone to it.  

Slowing, I waited for him to notice, for his eyes to open on me, and when they did I showed a somber face, garnering his full attention.

“ _Vous me laisserez le faire_ ,” I beseeched, “ _n’est-ce pas?_ ”

He blinked.

“ _Oui_ … I thought I was.”  

Relieved and encouraged, I smiled at him.

“ _Bien_.”

Then I guided him to touch me, and I gripped the headboard for leverage as I began working us towards the end. Our dance no longer consisted of mere heated grinding and gasps, but full-bodied riding, bearing down with an unrelenting force, and cries of passion pouring into the room at a worrisome volume as a heady friction built up inside me. Lestat was constantly alternating between petting and scratching my thighs, but I only just noticed, too overwhelmed by the look on his face, the unbridled desire and that sweet, rare vulnerability shining through clear as day.

Not too soon, I told myself. I needed the notion to settle in; I was having my way with him.  But he looked somehow pained by it, his expression grim and strained, and I adored it too much to take my time. I wanted to see more, so much more, so badly. And so, I began moving my hips in long, sharp circles, making Lestat buck up helplessly, and I settled backwards and placed my palms on his thighs, simultaneously keeping him down and pushing myself up with more fervor and impact and urgency on every spark of pleasure fizzing out in my gut – leaving me hot and aching in frustration.   

Lestat whined in the back of his throat and shifted again, legs drawing up even further until I felt them at my lower back. Then he reached forward, pulling me down to be kissed, and I quickly took charge, licking into his mouth as though it were a fountain for fresh water that might restore my humanity, just as it had taken it. And I was still working my hips over and over, but I was losing my rhythm, focused instead on matters of the tongue – like coaxing Lestat into opening his lips for me, meeting me there, then immediately retreating when he did, having him lean forward, give chase.          

When we parted, Lestat’s eyes were glossy, glazed pink, and he reached up to move the hair from my face, smoothing it back behind my ear. His other hand was petting my leg again, slowly now, with deep, lethargic affection, and creeping towards my weeping erection in deprived anticipation as he began to speak.  

“Louis,” he said my name so breathlessly, so desperately that I wanted to bury myself in him and listen to only its echo for the rest of time. It was too precious, too rare a stone to resist. “Can I?” he asked, so perfectly meek and humble that it made me want to cry. “Please. I need to…” 

Stilling, I sat up and ran my hands down his chest, taking pleasure in the powerful shiver it produced, and how his face flushed with the effort of restraint. I found myself admiring him for it, then wanting him, and a fickle sense of exigency settled under my skin.

 _Yes_ , the voice said. _Let him. You know it will feel good._  

Agreeable, but wordless, I nodded. And smiling in relief, Lestat gripped my waist and sat up further, knees still bent and acting as a seat for me. And with an incomprehensible strength, he began moving his hips and my body at the same time – easing the strain in my legs and making the sound of skin smacking skin evermore present and precise. Fucking me fast and hard and steady now, consistently feeding the cold fire in my belly, the sparks of white that exploded behind my eyelids with every overwhelming rush – every wave of twisted pleasure crashing through me.  

“Lestat, oh-!” I moaned when he hit that particular spot, gripping his forearms and using them as a base to try and retain control.

Lestat was beyond that though, seemingly uninterested in it. He was far more focused on thrusting up into me, quickening with every inward motion, finding contentment in my body by trying to reach that sweet, delirious pique.

It wasn’t enough though, not for either of us. And before I could think on it, my face was at his throat, and I was licking up his Adam’s apple, hypnotized by how it bobbed when he moaned and gulped. It was a lovely, fluid, mortal-esque movement, and I wrapped a hand around my aching cock, unable to resist. And this. This was it. This was the thing I’d truly been waiting for. The only real satisfaction anymore.    

The moment my teeth pierced his neck, Lestat’s hips stuttered and I felt the throb of him, then the spurt of his release, hot and thick inside me. But I was drinking, and I did not have the wherewithal to move beyond long, quenching swallows. So, he took pity on me by wrapping his hand around my own, loose and stagnant, and guiding me to stroke myself through it, to find that penultimate pleasure, and fall back to him. And with three final tugs, I gasped and sobbed and spilled onto his chest.  

When I finally opened my eyes, it was to the speckles of blood that had sprayed from my lips upon orgasm, decorating the pale flesh of Lestat’s shoulder like a Pollock. And he was caressing me, whispering something soft and poetic that I was not yet coherent enough to absorb.

So simply, he was happy with me again. He was open, mollified… Well, for now at least. But his grip on my waist was still so tight, his voice so edgy. And, again, I felt as though I’d neglected him even though I knew it not to be true.

Because it’s not.

But oh, Lestat. Dear, capricious, Lestat. How you do adore your drama…

I say it again, only because it’s the gist. I love you anyway though, for it’s no more than I deserve.

Besides, it’s partially my own fault. I have no control when it comes to you, not of myself, not really. But that’s fine, because when have I ever? Never, you’d probably say. Not in that alley with that man, not with the countless fires or that plague ridden little girl, and certainly not as a mortal nearly drowning in alcohol, the one who fell for your tricks. But I was doomed well before you set eyes on me, wasn’t I? So, what does it matter?

It doesn’t.

They worked.

I’m here.

I’m still with you.        

 

[…]

 

Later, after the night became quiet, lovely, and lonely, it found Lestat and I lying together on the couch in his room. I’d wanted to finish the movie he interrupted; it was as simple as that. And now that he’d settled, he was decidedly more amenable. So, he rewound to the start, and joined me of his own volition, commenting how odd I was for repeatedly watching “this silly flick,” saying he didn’t understand why I favored it so much, but not in a malicious way, only lightly and out of playful habit.

But for the most part he was amazingly quiet all throughout, and he was being tactile and sweet with me. And careful, painfully so, cutting himself short even after the movie had ended and we retreated to his bed, where our intertwinement again inlayed a misplaced stake of guilt in my heart.

Clearly, Lestat wanted to ask, but I was the one overdue at the confessional.  

“You know…” I started to say, but even so there was that rotten hesitation again. Regardless, I pushed through, and I admitted to him, “I have considered it.”

Lestat instantly perked up.

“You have?”

I pursed my lips and nodded.  

“Did you decide?” he asked then, quick and to the point.

Another pause, then another nod.  

“And?” He sat up out of our embrace and hovered over me, sounding somehow violent in his curtness.  

Silent, I watched his face for a moment, not really wanting to say it, but knowing I should. And too knowing it would be no easier seconds or hours or months or even decades from now. It would never be, of course, it never had been. I was acting foolish.

 _Get it over with, Louis_ , came the voice again. _Do it. Ease this pain too – his pain, which might as well be your own._      

“Alright,” so I told him, “I’ll do it.” 

And Lestat seemed bewildered, then giddy, and he moved to kiss me. But, with a raised hand, I stopped him.    

“Under one condition.”  

In a snap, his grin turned to a grimace.

“What kind of condition?” 

“You’ll wait,” I said, “until it’s the right time.”

Lestat groaned and drew away.

“The right time? What exactly is that supposed to mean? When?!” he demanded.

“When it feels right.”

“It does feel right!” he insisted. “That’s why I asked!”

“I meant for me, Lestat.” I fixed him with a serious stare. “You can give me that much, can’t you? It’s only fair.” And as those words left my mouth, I thought of all the lies, and all the years I spent looking for him, waiting for him to reappear, wondering if he’d turned on me. And, from the look on his face, presumably, so did he.        

“Fine,” he all but heaved, exasperated and lightly guilty, amazingly enough. “Fine! Just don’t expect me to be quiet about it! And don’t make me wait too long either; who knows what I might do?!”

I had to laugh at that.  

“Who, indeed?”

“And you’d better not try and leave after this either!” he went on. “I’ll find you no matter what, Louis! You know I will!”

“I know.” I touched his arm. Played along. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Oh, wouldn’t you?” Lestat grumbled something petulant then and raked his nails across my hip, but otherwise didn’t challenge me any further, so I let it slide.   

Mentally, I congratulated myself on a job well done. And now that that was settled, I pulled him down and, again, shifted closer to prompt his embrace. And, of course, despite the ire on his face, naturally, he did embrace me, and I felt his grip for what it was – not anger, but desperation. I knew his feelings well, after all, just as I knew my own. And he was strangely charming in that way, as he tends to be.          

“You surprised me,” he said then, softening in affection’s hands, his own now running teasingly over my hip and up and down the side and back of my thigh. “You’re not usually so… enthusiastic.”

“Because you wanted me to be,” I explained.

“Oh, so you faked it then?” That had come out somewhat bitter.

“Not faked,” I pacified. “Embellished. Because I wanted to do as you wanted me to do. Or was I mistaken?”

Lestat deflated, looked at my mouth, and sighed morosely.  

“No. I want it all. Especially what you’re unwilling to give.”

“I know,” I assured. “But you’ll compromise, won’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And trust me?”

“…yes.”

“And wait?”

“Yes already, fuck!” he barked huffily, tossing back his head. “I’ll wait – damn it all, you know I will! It’s not like I have much of a choice!”

“Good,” I said, leaning into him just a bit more, my cheek on his arm. “Then my answer is yes, Lestat, I will marry you. Some day. And in the meantime you’ll do me the favor of learning some patience.”  

In retaliation he pinched my buttock, which made me flinch and nearly strike him. But where that was so teasing an act, his mischievous smile was absent.  

“How about you learn to live with me instead?” he muttered, sounding dissatisfied. “Leave that shithole you call a ‘house’ and finally come home to me once and for all.”

“You really think that’s the answer?” I was genuinely curious, and pulled back and sat up on my elbows to look him in the eye.

“Of course, I do,” he insisted, the hope in him bright enough to darken my cheeks. “There’s nothing I want more.”  

And in that moment I utterly believed him, the filthy fraud. Maybe simply because it was what I wanted to do. Because, despite my better judgment, I also wanted him always. But maybe not. All I knew for sure was that I had the time to find out. All the time in the world for a new mistake. All that my limitations would allow.      

So, “alright, Lestat, you win,” I said, an echo of the past. “I’ll stay.”

Because that was the true reason for all this, wasn’t it? Forget marriage.  

And before I knew it he was on me, and we were kissing again. Yes, that was it, and he was telling me so by being physically appreciative, pleased, and impassioned by joy, inspiring some semblance of pessimistic, tentative delight in me as well. And I smiled against his eager mouth even as I wavered, as I felt the dawn approach in my eyes and began embracing that darkness, trusting Lestat to keep out the light, and wondering all the while if this was the right thing to do. Then drifting to that wonder – dreaming of it.

Yet, still, I cannot say. And I doubt I ever will be able. Not when he is that devious, that ambiguous, ambitious, and needy. Not when I am that hesitant, anxious version of myself. And especially not with a potential eternity on the horizon, in the wake of the sun, that much was also for certain.  

But then again, so was that song in my heart. That ache in my head. That nightmare haunting each hour of each day I’d forsaken for him. So was his vision of lonely duality and the disease of co-dependence. And the fact of his force, the weapon which tied me to him, which keeps me here and that I have no strength to deny, because he saw to it that that would be the case. That, in the name of grave devotion, I am incapable. And that I could never be without him, for I would never be stronger or more whole than he.  

He, who is not so intact after all, but who still drank my ammunition away with nary a thought, and who was deceitful and secretive, lighting the rooms thoroughly, yet having me always in the dark. He, who took me, then left me, then returned to me not the same. Who I sought out – searched for. Who I dreamt of, and mourned over, and hoped for night by day by night by day. Who I’ve lost to again and again. And who, even still, I would wait for.

He, who is arrogant.

He, who is fickle.

He, who is so insecure.

He, the notorious Vampire Lestat, who happens to be my lover.

**Author's Note:**

> My use of the French language is both tacky and useless, I know, but I love it and refuse to stop. Also, originally Lestat was going to bottom in this part, but I couldn’t get myself to write it, because I’m too much of a slut for bottom!Louis and basically just weak af. So, in order to stay On Brand while also keeping to the theme of the story, I compromised with some good ol’fashioned (except totally not at all) power-bottom!Louis instead. Here’s hoping it works just as well!~ :3c 
> 
> I really do want to try my hand at bottom!Lestat though, because I 10,000% see the appeal. But somehow I’m just so stuck on bottom!Louis that I can’t even imagine him topping Lestat, who I feel would put up too much of a fight. Like, Louis’s probably not that invested in sex, right? Haha… 
> 
> Maybe the solution is to write Lestat getting dick’d down by Nicolas as humans instead… but, then again, Lestat/Louis = OTP, so????????// idk maN (maybe I’ll put it in LITNOL or something…) 
> 
> Anyway, this still needs to be edited more, as usual, so for now please ignore all my various mistakes. Thanks. 
> 
>  
> 
> FRENCH TRANSLATIONS: (feel free to hit me up if you notice anything mistranslated...)
> 
> c’est la vie – that’s life  
> mon amour – my love  
> mon dieu – my god  
> chéri – dear  
> mon petit menteur – my little liar  
> vous me laisserez le faire – you’ll let me do it  
> n’est-ce pas? – won’t you? (*in this context)  
> oui – yes  
> bien – good 
> 
> (P.S., I’m thinking of writing some BDSM next between updates of LITNOL, just because, in my opinion, you can never have too much sub!Louis. So, stay tuned if that’s your thing… I guess...)


End file.
